


some feeling once in a while

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it is the thought of Brandon, or the memory of Catelyn watching him practice, but he suggests without even realizing, “Perhaps…there is plenty of room. Perhaps we could…share.” </p><p>He silently curses himself when he sees her face flush further, when he sees her eyes dart nervously about the clearing, as though seeking an escape or someone to come to her rescue. “Or,” he hastily adds, “I will leave you in peace, I did not mean to…” </p><p>“No,” Catelyn interrupts, her voice pitched higher than normal, her face still pink and her posture uncomfortable. “We are married, are we not?” A smile flickers across her face, and she adds, in a tone closer to her normal voice, “We should learn to share.” </p><p>--</p><p>Written for the GameofShips Wintertown Challenge!</p>
            </blockquote>





	some feeling once in a while

**Author's Note:**

> Young awkward horny newlywed strangers are young and awkward and horny around one another - that's it, that's the fic. XD
> 
> Enjoy!

Ned Stark did not often seek solace in the hot springs of Winterfell’s godswood, preferring to offer his worries to the grave face of the weirwood tree and find his respite in prayer. But his muscles are tired and aching after hours of training in the yard with Ser Rodrik, the newly made master-of-arms of Winterfell. The pain in his body is an embarrassment, but he has been more distracted by matters of state than warfare since the end of the Rebellion, of learning how to rule the domain he never expected to inherit. Yet while the North had little love for Aerys Targaryen, reports from Robert – King Robert – of skirmishes in the south remind Ned that peace will not last forever, one way or another, and he must be able to fight as well as lead. 

He does not often go to the hot springs, and perhaps that is why his presence takes his wife by surprise. 

“Oh,” Lady Catelyn gasps as she comes into the clearing, her arms full of furs, her cloak bundled tight around her. Her hood is down, however, and her red hair is the single burst of color in a world that has been bathed in white and grey. She shrinks back, instinctively, her grasp tightening on the bounty in her arms. “Forgive me, my lord,” she adds, remembering her courtesies as she recovers from her surprise. “I did not expect…” 

No, Ned thinks to himself, not without a measure of bitterness, no, if she had known, if she had expected, she would have never come. 

His frustration, though, lies mostly with himself. It is his fault, after all, that his southron wife avoids him as though he were an Other, his fault that the small spark of affection that had started between them had been so thoroughly stamped out. Of course, he had not wanted her to ask questions, no more than he had wanted to lie to her in the first place, but…well. 

He had not needed to shout at her so. 

Her reaction had surprised him, too, and shamed him, the way she had pulled into herself, her blue eyes growing guarded, like the clouds coming over the sun. He had frightened her, and though the heaviness of the secret at hand kept his apologies from tumbling from his lips, he does not excuse or forgive himself. He had not known how to speak to her then, and he does not know how to speak to her now; he has so little experience with women, and Lya had been so different from most noble ladies, and he cannot seem to stop himself from saying exactly the wrong thing. 

“Please,” he says, hoping to stall her retreat when he sees her take a tentative step backwards. “There is no need to go. I will leave…” If his wife has found some comfort and pleasure in the hot springs, for clearly by her supplies this is not her first venture, he is loathe to intrude. He had spent so much of his youth in the Eyrie that Winterfell at times feels strange and foreboding even to him, and whenever he had spent his youth, he is still a northman. He cannot imagine how foreign and unwelcoming it must seem to a girl born and raised in the warmth and sunshine. And he has done nothing of note to ease her transition. 

He has tried…but he has not tried hard enough, and then and there he resolves to do better by the southron bride he never thought to have, the lady meant to be his brother’s wife. 

He makes to hoist himself from the pool, realizing only as he braces himself along the edge that he is naked beneath the dark water, and he hesitates. It is foolish – Catelyn is his wife, and she has seen him, but only under the cover of darkness, for duty’s sake, and not once since that horrible night in her bedchamber. It feels too bold, too intimate, and he stops himself. 

She draws her lip between her teeth, nipping on it, and he cannot help but watch as they stand at an impasse. “No, my lord, I did not mean to intrude,” she demurs, and she looks away from him, a flush staining her cheeks a pretty pink. “I saw you training in the yard, I should have realized…” 

She had seen him, that is true, and what’s more, he had seen her as well, standing at the open window overlooking the yard. “I will try to not shame you before your lady,” Ser Rodrik had snickered, bringing Ned’s attention to her presence. She had been too far away for Ned to read her expression, but she had seen him look her way and she had not retreated. 

He had swung Ice with renewed strength, determined to not shame himself as well, eager in that dark, jealous part of his heart to perform as well as he’s sure Brandon would have. 

Perhaps it is the thought of Brandon, or the memory of Catelyn watching him practice, but he suggests without even realizing, “Perhaps…there is plenty of room. Perhaps we could…share.” 

He silently curses himself when he sees her face flush further, when he sees her eyes dart nervously about the clearing, as though seeking an escape or someone to come to her rescue. “Or,” he hastily adds, “I will leave you in peace, I did not mean to…” 

“No,” Catelyn interrupts, her voice pitched higher than normal, her face still pink and her posture uncomfortable. “We are married, are we not?” A smile flickers across her face, and she adds, in a tone closer to her normal voice, “We should learn to share.” 

He laughs at her unexpected jest, and his laughter pieces the silence of the godswood. Her face brightens at the sound, and he wishes he were the sort to laugh more often – or better yet, the sort to make a lady laugh, that he could turn a phrase as well as his more gregarious siblings had been able to. 

Slowly, hesitantly, she puts the furs on the ground, safely away from the water. Her fingers flutter to the hollow of her throat as she reaches for the laces of her cloak, and he does not know where to look, if she will be angry if he watches as she disrobes or insulted if he looks away. He settles for watching the top of her head as she disrobes, as though something just above her has caught his interest, trying very hard to not focus on the rustle of fabric as it drops to the ground. 

He drops his gaze too soon, however, as he hears the splashing of the water as she enters, and he catches an inadvertent glance of the swell of her hips, her narrow waist and high, full breasts, skin white as the snow on the ground before her body is submerged. 

Beneath the water, his cock twitches, and he suppresses a groan. 

“Mmmm,” she murmurs, her voice low and throaty. “It is very nice, isn’t it? The water is so warm. In Riverrun, the water was always so cold. Lysa and I would dare each other to jump from the branches straight into the river, and sometimes it was like being pierced with a knife.” He watches her, transfixed as she speaks, and he listens silently. It is not often that Catelyn speaks of her childhood, and certainly not since their argument, and he finds himself wanting to know more. To know everything. 

She is very beautiful, his wife. The sort of beauty he never thought to have, the sort he never expected. The kind who is made for men who are fashioned for legend, like Brandon, like Robert, not for second sons who are plain-faced and thick-tongued. Catelyn is a dutiful woman but at times he thinks she must curse that fate cast her to a destiny less than what she had been made for. 

She glances over at him at his silence, and she says ruefully, “I babble, my lord. Forgive me. You came here to relax and I am ruining your solace with my chatter.” 

“No, my lady,” he replies quietly. “Listening to you is a greater pleasure by far.” 

He is no wordsmith, but he knows that in this instance, he has stumbled upon precisely the right thing to say. 

She smiles shyly at him from some distance away, and it has been a long time since she looked at him with anything other than displeasure. Despite his assurance, she is quiet then as she tips her head back, her hair floating on the surface like a thousand fallen leaves. Beneath the water her skin glows, obscured but visible enough to send his imagination racing. 

He wants to touch her. He wants her to touch him. He wants to touch himself, his cock fully hard now, and he wonders if she would notice if he slipped a hand beneath the water to bring himself some relief….

 _No,_ he scolds himself, furious for having even considered it. No, surely she would notice and he has no desire to make her uncomfortable, especially not at the first suggestion that the ice between them could possibly begin to thaw again. 

Robert would laugh at him. _Brandon_ would have laughed at him, would have crossed to her in two strokes and pushed his cock inside her. _What else are wives for?_ Ned can practically hear his brother asking. Would her mouth make a perfect ‘oh’, he wonders, and he tries to imagine how her hips would feel beneath his fingers, wet and weightless, the curve of her arse in his palms…

For the briefest of moments, he wishes he had married an ugly woman. Surely then, honor and decency would come easier to him. 

He turns away from her with a low curse, muttered beneath his breath, and discreetly lowers his hand beneath the surface, pressing his palm against his cock, hard as steel, praying to the gods for a respite. It feels good, but not as good as his imaginings. Would his touch be so unwelcome, he cannot help but wonder, but things are too uncertain for him to dare more than wonder. 

Catelyn’s fingertips on his shoulder burn like hot iron, and he jerks at her unexpected touch, instinctively drawing away as his grip falls away from his hardness. There is a look in her eyes that he cannot quite identify, and he is paralyzed with the fear that she knows. His has been called a face that is difficult to read, but he is sure she can read his thoughts plain as day…

“You’re bleeding,” she murmurs, her eyes wide and blue and concerned, and she holds up her red fingers for him to inspect. 

“Oh,” he says, and his voice is breathless. His hand wanders instinctively to the place she had touched, just below his neck on the back of his shoulder. It stings, but is barely enough to distract him from the tightness in his groin, much less a thing to bring him true concern. “It is just a graze.” 

“Still,” she replies, with a hint of reproach, “the maester should have a look at it. We would not want it to fester.” 

“Of course,” he replies lamely, and her eyes twinkle knowingly, letting him know for certain that his secret has been discovered. She is close enough that he can smell her, that sweet scent that clings to her hair and the nape of her neck, and it does little to help his predicament. 

“Shall I go ahead and alert him that you will be coming along?” she asks kindly, and desperately he grasps the opportunity, the escape. If he had but a moment alone to…compose himself…

“I should be most grateful, my lady,” he replies in a rush, and she smiles at him again, hoisting herself from the water. This time, he looks pointedly away until she speaks again, wrapped in a fur, her collarbone bare above it. The bone there is delicate, and his hand twitches as he thinks of running his finger along it. He had given her that fur, and the thought of her naked beneath it….

“You are right that there is plenty of room. Perhaps we may share again in the near future,” she suggests lightly, and he can barely stammer out an agreement, that he would like that very much. 

When she is gone once more, it takes only a few strokes of his palm to bring him release. The gasp that escapes his lips slices into the silence, so unnaturally loud that it is hard to believe she had been there at all. 

It is hard to believe that he had not simply imagined her into being.


End file.
